


The War's Reprieve

by WitchElbi



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Children, Family, M/M, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 14:04:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4224543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WitchElbi/pseuds/WitchElbi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Had Bard intended to attend a meeting with the King of Mirkwood with his children in tow? Of course not. Was he about to? Absolutely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The War's Reprieve

**Author's Note:**

> A short piece for Valentine's Day written on the fly from a long-stewing idea. Should probably be edited and proofread, but whatever, I'm not planning on expanding it anytime soon. I just wanted cute dad feels okay?

Had Bard intended to attend a meeting with the King of Mirkwood with his children in tow? Of course not. Was he about to? Absolutely.

It had only been two days since the Battle of the Five Armies, and the death of Thorin and his nephews. The Dwarves’ reparations for Dale were slow coming. Despite the many idle threats to leave them to their own devices, Thranduil and his Elves had so far remained. He claimed that he wanted to ensure the stability of the one outside settlement Mirkwood deigned to trade with. Bard had a feeling that the sharp Elf was more interested in having a new monarch in his debt. King. He wasn’t used to getting called that. He wasn’t sure why he even needed to be a king at all, actually. Mayor would’ve been more than enough of a title for him. If only everyone wouldn’t keep insisting.

As for his children, it wasn’t such a complicated matter. From the moment the fighting had ceased and they reunited, they had refused to leave his side. For the first day, this was fine. Both leaders had kept to their own while overseeing the treatment of the injured and the burial of their dead. But now, as one of Thranduil’s personal guardsmen approached him with a pressing invite to discuss proceedings, he wasn’t quite as keen to have the extra shadows.

Bard attempted to dissuade his children from following him into the Elven camp. He cited how boring it would be to listen to the politics, or that they might anger “the cold Elven King” by being there uninvited. Tilda was having none of it, clinging to his side with tears pricking at her eyelashes. Sigrid countered that she had to watch Tilda. Bain claimed that he would one day take over as King of Dale so it was best to start him early. All three of their rebuttals hung heavy with the anxiety they had felt not two days before. Fearing every second could be their father’s last.

Whatever Thranduil had been saying in Elvish to one of his attendants upon their arrival, it was clear that he was not happy about it. His pale mouth was strung in a thin line and his dark brows were near knit together. Though the tail of one did rise upon noticing the new King’s company.

“I apologize, your majesty, but my children did not wish to part from me today. If you’ll allow their presence, I promise they will mind themselves,” Bard entreated.

A second passed. Then another. Thranduil lowered his head once, a slow nod, before bringing to attention the topic of their meeting. Though the Dwarves have agreed to pay the funds Thorin promised, they were dodging further inquiry. It was imperative to pin down within the week whether Erebor would be looking to use Dale as their main trading venue. Mirkwood was not keen on forfeiting, but with the relocation from Laketown they may have to yield. No longer could they merely send empty barrels down the river for the former boatmen to replenish.

The talks drew on, and as promised, Bard’s children were quiet. If not a slight bit antsy. Sigrid was holding her posture well, every once in a while reaching over to Tilda to remind her to keep still. Bain had been listening for the first hour, but every now and then his eye darted to the guardsmen and their peculiar weapons. No doubt he wished to try them out for himself. But despite her sister’s fussing, Tilda was the closest to breaking her father’s word. His youngest hopped from one foot to the other and hummed rhyming songs under her breath. Every once in a while giving her father’s sleeve a quick tug to ask him what a word meant. 

When Bard posed a question and no answer came, he repeated himself. Something in the Elf King's attention had distracted him. Thranduil was looking towards him, but his eyes were cast just a slight to the side. Where Tilda hovered.

“Child,” His voice pierced her restless movement and she stood still, “who plaited your hair?”

“My sister, sir. Sigrid. …But it fell out, and I tried to re-tie it myself.”

Only now did Bard give his daughter’s hair a close look, and noted that it indeed lie haphazard on her head. He had tried his best to take over some of his wife’s more feminine duties after her passing. But hair was something that still eluded him.

“What is your name?" 

“Tilda, sir.” 

“Tilda. While your efforts were honorable, sometimes you must admit your own shortcomings in order to learn from them. Let your sister plait it again so as not to entangle it entirely.”

Sigrid uttered apologies one right after the other as she shepherded her sister over to undo her messy hair. But as the snarled locks tumbled out, Thranduil raised his hand. 

“On second thought, this may require more attention. Come here.”

Though Bard’s eldest hesitated, the youngest was quick to comply. She darted to stand by the arm of his chair, as she had done with her own father, waiting while he spoke to one of his attendants. Putting his hands light on Tilda’s shoulders, he guided her to turn away from him so he could face the beastly mane himself. Using his fingers, Thranduil began to guide out all the crossed hairs and little knots. He asked Tilda as to what she could have been doing to muss her hair so thorough and got a fit of giggles in response.

Now, the new King would have been lying to himself if he did not admit that the scene before him sent a pang through his heart. So much of it reminded him of his passed wife. She had done much the same for Sigrid when she couldn’t find a comb.

Speaking of combs, the attendant returned with a magnificent specimen. Carved antler inlaid with mother-of-pearl, teeth set close for a thorough finish. Thranduil was already running it through his younger daughter’s hair when he called over his eldest. He was going to teach Sigrid the plaits he was putting in for Tilda.

“Legolas is your son, right?” Tilda’s question was sudden. The thin, graceful fingers parting her hair paused a moment.

“Yes, he is.”

“Did you ever do this with him?”

At this, the placid that had settled into the King of Mirkwood’s features cracked. It crinkled at the corners of his eyes, and pulled at the edges of his mouth. He was smiling. Recalling a fonder time.

“When he was of your stature and smaller, yes. All the time.”

Both of Bard’s girls were smiling now too, more at ease under Thranduil’s tent then they had ever been since leaving Laketown. Bain grimaced, as he usually did at the frou-frou things his sisters indulged in, but didn’t tease.

As odd of a respite as it was, Bard was grateful for the levity of that moment. There was not a town looking to him for guidance and leadership. There were no stubborn dwarves trying to pay their dues with frugal sensibilities. The two Kings seated at that table had not just survived a battle of near incomparable enormity.

Right then, they were fathers. Finding a simple joy in a simple task. All for the love of their children.


End file.
